


Burns

by daphnie_1



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Contains additional warnings in notes, Gen, Moriarty being Moriarty, Obsession, Obsessive Behaviour, Oneshot, Wordcount: 100-1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-04
Updated: 2011-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-14 10:12:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/148157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daphnie_1/pseuds/daphnie_1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Contains spoilers for episode three.  In the wake of 'The Great Game' Sherlock receives a visitor in hospital.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burns

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shinodabear](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Shinodabear).



> Further Warnings: Hospital environment, burns, deals with the aftermath of explosions & references to the loss of eyesight.
> 
> Beta: Shinodabear

He could kill him. Moriarty could kill Sherlock Holmes right now and no one would know. He could stop him, stop his heart, and no one would ever know. It would be easy. So, so, easy.

It's why he's here. At least, it's why he's meant to be here, in this stupid little room in this stupid little hospital. The room is too bright and the colours are too dull and the air has that nasty tang that all hospitals have - the tang that is meant to make you think it's clean when it isn't because underneath it is still warmth and sickness.

But Moriarty won't kill Sherlock Holmes. At least, he doesn't think he will. Because it _would_ be too easy, which seems to take the fun out of the whole thing. When he does kill Sherlock - and he will, oh he will - it should be something worthy, something fitting, oh yes. So, fine, he'll admit that if he'd really wanted to kill Sherlock, he could have done it before. He could have done it without the games, and the pool, and the semtex. He could have killed Sherlock before the detective had even heard Moriarty's name.

But it'd been fun. Hadn't it been fun? That had sort of been the point.

But this? This is not fun, oh no, this is the opposite of fun. Moriarty is pacing up and down the small room now because Sherlock is unconscious - or dead, but Moriarty is more inclined to go with the former - so he's not exactly being entertaining. Sherlock is also pretty badly burnt, but hey, considering the blast, he got off pretty lightly. And, well, Moriarty has seen worse. Just look at John. Just look at him.

He looks over at Sherlock and can't stop himself from laughing because the burns on their faces are in exactly the same spot. Which is funny. The same pretty red pattern snaking down the side of his face that Sherlock's bandages are covering. Isn't it funny? Even if he doesn't know why. You can't see the burns on Moriarty either though, oh no; they are covered in layers of make-up and fake skin. He scratches the side of his face, the side of his face that should mirror Sherlock's, that should be covered in bandages and be bright red and raw underneath, but looks normal. You will never be able to tell but it burns and it itches and the sight in his right eye is never going to be the same. The contact means it looks normal, that it doesn't look gray and cloudy, even though it is.

Not even getting here had been fun. It had been easy enough to get in - dress up in scrubs and pickpocket the next orderly that walked past - and it's unlikely that anyone will come in since it's past visiting hours, and they won't bother to challenge him if they do. People are so predictable and he can make them see all sorts of things so easily, like Jim the chatty but slightly stressed orderly with the warm smile, that he sometimes wonders why he puts so much effort into it.

Moriarty slumps into the chair beside Sherlock's bed and sighs. "It's just like you to go and spoil everything by taking it so seriously." Because Sherlock would, just to spite him, spoil their little game, spoil everything.

Moriarty wonders, now that he's not going to kill Sherlock, whether he should have brought a gift. If you visit someone in hospital you should always take them a gift. But he has no idea what. Flowers are kind of rubbish and it's probably quite difficult to get a card with appropriate sentiments on it, really. Not that he's ever bought a card but, well, you know, he doesn't imagine it's the sort of thing they write bad poetic verse about.

But he wants to leave something. A message, a note, telling Sherlock that their little game is not over, oh no, it is far, far from being over. Because it's important that Sherlock understands that; it's so, so important.

"We will kill each other you know, my dear. Before this is done we will kill each other." Moriarty tells the empty room and the un-listening Sherlock. (Isn't that funny? Sherlock never listens when he's conscious either, not properly, not _really_. It strikes him as funny anyway, but then, lots of things do. Except the things that make him angry. Those aren't funny.)

He's known how it'd end since he found out about Sherlock and Carl Powers - found out that Sherlock had suspected something, that Sherlock knew. They had both started there, both grown, both drawn from the same thing, like shadows of each other, and they both can't live in the light.

Moriarty wonders if Sherlock understands. Really, truly, understands any of this. Really, truly, understands what it means. Sherlock observes, oh yes, but he does not see. Not properly.

Moriarty laughs again, because neither can he, not anymore.

The room is quiet, so, so, quiet. The only noise is the beep of the monitor and Sherlock breathing steadily and, somehow, both of these are noisy, too noisy, in comparison to the rest of the quiet.

Moriarty scratches the side of his face even though he can't get at the itch - not really - and rises to his feet.

"Well, I'd better be off."


End file.
